


Alone Again Or

by jellybeantarot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, Kinda, M/M, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Older Man/Younger Man, POV Harry Potter, POV Sirius Black, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Rare Pairings, Sirius Black Lives, and they were ROOMMATES, like barely though, mentions of adult themes, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-25 07:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30085263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeantarot/pseuds/jellybeantarot
Summary: Harry lived and longed for what he couldn't have.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title is from the song 'alone again or' by love!

Harry is 23, Sirius is 44, and Harry wondered how morally wrong it was to have feelings for his godfather.

Harry remembers how Sirius looked ten years ago, when he shifted from underfed dog to underfed man in the secluded wooden shack. His hair was scraggly and knotted, his smile frightening and manic, his prison uniform literally _hanging_ off his body. 

But then, Harry thinks about how Sirius looks now. His once bedraggled, tangled hair slowly changed throughout the years to become thick, impossibly silky-smooth, (or so it looks based solely on sight- he can’t risk being caught staring for too long). Sirius sometimes decides to experiment with muggle hair dye, but he tends to return to the bluish-black relatively quickly. Harry doesn’t think it should be allowed that Sirius can look good with any hair color, from the startling bright green that would be a crime on anyone else but is utterly sinful on him, to the dark red that reminds them too much of what neither of them want to remember. He goes back to black very quickly that time. 

His teeth, which had been yellowed over years of being denied toiletries, are white again from the diligent use of charms. They had been perfected from all ails, from his time before Azkaban (cigarette and beer stains), during (the drag of the bottom set against top, grinding together to suppress screams, or nightmares, or a terrifying mix of the two), and after (having to feast on the leftovers of anyone, everyone).

His clothes are perfectly tailored; though, when given free reign and muggle money, he tends to buy his shirts a bit too small and his trousers a bit too tight, because he likes how his once lithe (malnourished) frame has become muscular _(_ _healthy)_ again. 

He enjoys experimenting with accessories the most, it seems, because he likes to buy chains wherever he goes, wearing them as necklaces or clasping them to his belt loops, hitting his thigh with a soft _clink_ when he walks. He gets his ears repierced, but this time, his cartilage as well, and Harry tries not to think about how Sirius likes to drape chains there too, connecting the piercings in his lobes to the ones in the curve of his helix. 

Sirius got his tattoos touched up as well. They look dark and sharp in the morning, hazy and blurry at night, and Harry wants to lick them always. 

Harry is 23, Sirius is 44, and Harry wonders just how morally wrong it was to be a little bit in lust with his godfather. 

Harry would try to banish these thoughts from his head as soon as they arose, but they are always interrupted by the purr of Sirius starting his motorcycle, or the smell of manly cologne in the bathroom, or the grey smoke from burnt toast wafting through the house as Sirius tries to cook breakfast, or how Sirius would _stretch_ and it seemed purposeful how those once too small shirts would be able to creep up his stomach and his still slightly visible ribs, exposing the not silky-smooth, but coarse, trail of hair leading, leading.

Sirius would try to encourage Harry to get out of the house to explore what had changed in the streets of London in the years of war-prison-war, and Harry would be prepared to say no, but then. Then. 

Sirius would smile his only slightly less crazed smile, say something damning like, _‘hurry up, I’m not getting any younger,’_ and everything was Sirius- his leather jacket, his combat boots, his _Sex Pistols_ concert tee, the door, the couch, Harry- and he would wonder how morally wrong it was to be more than a little bit in love with his godfather. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the kind comments, here is part 2!

Sirius had almost died, and he almost wishes he had, because hell can’t be worse than this. Of that, he is nearly certain.

What he wasn’t certain of was when Harry had become more than just the son of James and Lily, and then became _nothing_ like James and Lily, and then, finally, became _Harry_ , just wonderful Harry; but, it had happened, because Harry was 23 and beautiful and his _godson_. 

Harry is tarnished gold. He is strong in ways many could never be, let alone ever understand. He is the comfort of a home-cooked meal and the thrill of a casino. Harry is everything good in the world, and he is everything Sirius would never deserve. He is too good for half-conjured, quickly imagined fantasies or waking up with sticky-pants-dreams. He is too good for dinner and a movie, is too good for diamonds, is too good for all the gold in Gringotts, is too good for Sirius.

When Harry rescued Sirius from the black, dark abyss of loneliness (and thrust him into a world that wasn’t so different from the Veil), he was 20 years old. 

And he was not Harry. 

Well, it was more like he _couldn’t_ be Harry. The Harry that Sirius had known was the son of James Potter, his best friend, and was his godson. Harry played Quidditch, he had several close friends, he was popular, and, most importantly, he was a boy. _He was the son of James and Lily, Sirius’ godson, and he was a_ child _._

The person who rescued Sirius from the Veil was not Harry. He was a _man_ , and he was a hero, and he wasn’t perfect, but he was close, the closest anyone had ever seen. Sirius couldn’t let himself believe that he was Harry, because if _that_ was Harry, Sirius was fucked. 

Sirius later learned that he was, indeed, fucked, because that was Harry. Harry had grown from the awkward scrawniness he possessed as a teenager to physically strong, with visible muscle and brawn that Sirius had flaunted at his age (and then lost over years of starvation and being sick sick _sick_ \- drowning in his sick and the sick of those he damned, for twelve years). 

He was still shorter than Sirius, but he was definitely taller than when he was a teenager, and he was too attractive.

Sirius had gone home with Not-Harry to Grimmauld Place, and the next day, he went to the muggle shops, and the muggle gym, and the tattoo parlour. That night, he went to the nightclubs, and the alleyways, and the hospital. 

There was at least one thing that hadn't changed in the years of war-prison-war; in fact, _that_ had gotten worse. 

(He remembered the muggle disease, and he remembered the people’s princess, and he remembered _smelling_ _fear_.)

So, he had begun to rely on muggle accoutrements, but not for Harry, no, certainly not. He wasn’t trying to catch his eye with the retouched tattoos, custom fitted robes, and jewelry made from delicate platinum, a habit he couldn’t break, even though he was-. Remus was-.

He doesn’t like to think about that time, or them. But, he also doesn’t like to think about Harry because he likes to think about Harry _too much._

He lives for thoughts of Harry. 

Sirius is certain that this life, the life where he would lust and long after his godson and mourn over his best friends every day, constantly, is worse than hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay! i continued it, but it's still heavy, so i may do a part three in the future where things are actually resolved. stay tuned for that!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peep that chapter count

Quidditch is never just Quidditch. 

Unlike Harry, Sirius wasn’t ever really a fan of the sport; if he is to fly, he vastly prefers doing so on his bike, rather than a broom. He could only watch and enjoy it with the people he loved, otherwise, he was not amused.

It was James that convinced him to go to a game in their first year. James, who made Sirius think that it was possible to be happy for more than brief moments. Sirius, who desperately wished Regulus could be more like James, and in doing so, made Regulus desperate to please their parents, and to do something to make them proud, and to make someone _see_ him, and Reg, oh _Reg_ \- 

James hugged him after the match when Gryffindor won, and it was the first hug he had since his seventh birthday ( _because seven is an important number, Sirius Orion, and you will remember this more than meaningless, useless, childish hugs, won’t you?)_ and seeing the exuberant smile on the face of his best friend (later only a memory to be taken) convinced him to attend all the matches James wanted that year, and then, because he was weak for friendship and love, for the rest of their time in school, and then, because he was scared, and hungry for time with his best friend (no, _brother_ ) for any matches they could safely (or not so safely) sneak away to in the years between graduation and That Night. 

In the years of prison, it was the memories of Quidditch that got soaked up the most by the dementors, Sirius later thinks. The most innocent form of joy, tainted only by the sadness from the loss of points, rather than life. Sometimes, he even looked forward to his joy leaving, because it meant there was still something there. There was still happiness in him, no matter how much the dementors had to dig to find it. 

But all of the time, it was just bad. Bad because he didn’t even like Quidditch, but he missed it. Bad because he was innocent, but he _wasn’t,_ but he _was_ for the crime he was incarcerated for. 

Bad because James was dead and Peter was traitorous and Lily was dead and Remus was homeless and Regulus was dead and Harry was-

Harry was alive. Harry, the one who was the prophecy child, was somehow, miraculously alive. 

And then, twelve years go by (he only knew because of the date on the paper, he thought it had been much, much longer than twelve), and Peter was a rat on the shoulder of Arthur and Molly’s son, who was the same age as Harry. 

And Sirius was a dog, and he was thin enough to slither in between the bars of his cell, and he _swam_. 

Quidditch, again, connected him to a Potter- Harry was _fantastic_ at Quidditch (which Sirius got to see in person one afternoon, because he’s always been cocky enough to take risks and charismatic enough to get away with it). Luckily, goblins don’t care who deals with them, as long as they get paid. So, Harry got a Firebolt. 

Months pass.

Sirius couldn’t kill Peter because Harry was too _good_ to let him, and then the rat ran away, and Sirius was back to hiding under bridges and eating scraps that didn’t fulfill, but sustained, for another year. 

Then, Dumbledore, the man who failed him and Reg and James and Lily, offered him his own house like it was a gift, and called it protection, called it Headquarters- Sirius called it prison. The memories, oh _God_ (Mother would hate the muggle curse), the memories, stop, _please-_

He was stuck, and then it was Christmas (they said four months passed, but it must have been more), and then Harry was in danger. 

Harry was in danger, and Sirius had to leave. 

Harry was about to die ( _‘good one, James!’_ ) and then Sirius… did? 

Didn’t?

Time passed, but it was hard to tell how long it had been. Emotions are different, in the blackness. They’re not as much. It doesn’t hurt to feel, anymore, because there wasn't anything _to_ feel. 

Time passed, and he didn’t know how long it had been until he saw James, Lily, and Remus (no, Remus, _Moony_ , not you too) and they’re looking at something. He smiled, because it was over, right? The nothingness was finally over? 

They were looking at Harry, who was looking at Sirius, and he was older. It wasn’t too easy to tell by his body, which still looked too thin, but his face was _old and weathered and tired_. 

He must have been so tired. 

_‘Does it hurt?’_ he asked Sirius; he was barely an adult. He was still just James’ boy. He would always be James' boy.

_‘Dying? Not at all. Quicker and easier than falling asleep.’_

They went with Harry to the end, and something must’ve happened, because Sirius was back in the abyss of nothing, without his friends, without Harry, and time passed. 

Time passed in the dark, and then it was light again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was going to do it all in this one, but the last one is a totally different tone that i think it would've been awkward to do it with this sadness (please tell me it was actually sad omfg)
> 
> obvs, the convo at the end is from dh. no one sue me k thanks
> 
> so last chapter coming soon! thank you for comments and kudos, i wasn't sure about this fic because i usually don't write prose/poetic-ish stuff, so i'm really happy that it's being pretty well received! ヽ(^◇^*)/


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chap! enjoy!

It was dark, until it was light, because life without Sirius was black. 

Harry was the hero of a world he no longer belonged to. 

He had been eleven, not belonging, either- he had nothing, he expected nothing, he knew nothing, until, suddenly, it was everything. He was this figurehead of courage for conquering a man that everyone feared too greatly to even whisper the name of, that he had no memory of ( _other than the shock of bright green behind his eyelids when he woke up panting and scared, in a cupboard meant for shoes but occupied by a lonely child in a house full of people_ ). 

But then, he was picked for the Quidditch team, and it meant so much at the time, and in the years that followed, because he had something that was _his_. He had done something of his own merit, and he could prove it _game_ after _game_ that he did truly belong in the Wizarding World. 

It was his first real family. He had to persuade the hat to put him in Gryffindor, after all. 

But then, after knowing him for so little time, Sirius was dead forever ( _'then I don’t want to be human!’- the one thing he had was his_ _humanity_ ) and Harry was lost. He had responsibilities, and he was the Quidditch captain, and he couldn’t tell Sirius about it. He couldn’t appreciate any of it because _Sirius was dead._

Until two years later, and he was a spirit in the forest, a bit more _solid_ than he had any right to be, and Harry thought that maybe the Veil was just _a_ veil. 

Harry was 20, he had been cleared to access the Department of Mysteries, and he saved Sirius from the shimmering nothingness, because if he couldn’t use his ‘Master of Death’ status to save Sirius, then what use did he have of it? 

Weeks later, after Sirius had adjusted himself enough with the present ( _‘it’s not the future, Sirius, it’s today, remember? You’re alive’_ ), Harry joined a small Quidditch team in Ireland, nothing recognized or official, and it was a hell of a Floo, but they didn’t care as much about who he was, and it was enough. Sirius came, occasionally, but the journey was too much for him, usually. He hated brooms, he couldn’t fly his bike over water, it was too far for apparation, and traveling by Floo reminded him too much of- the Floo could be a bit disorientating. 

Andromeda wouldn’t allow Harry to take Teddy by the Floo, so they only went to matches in the United Kingdom. Harry desperately wanted Teddy to have the found family that he did- they were orphans of war, they were _survivors_. 

He was only five, though, so the kid had time to find his passion. For now, making Teddy happy was the best Harry could do. 

As well as Sirius, of course, because any happiness that Harry could give Sirius, he did. 

Because over the years, Sirius stopped returning to Grimmauld, late at night, _sweaty_ and _satisfied_ , but in time for Harry to return from his matches, dinner (slightly off) on the table, with a bag of clothes from the charity shops waiting for a reveal ( _‘they dare call_ this _vintage, Harry? Stop laughing!’ and then he would hold up a_ Led Zeppelin _tour shirt, wrestle Harry to the ground in a play fight like he wasn’t making him choke down his desires, and Harry would shamefully masturbate to the memory of Sirius’ hand on his hip, later that night)_ , and a grin reserved for Harry. 

Because Sirius, sometimes, only sometimes, _would_ go to Harry’s Quidditch matches and insist on showing him a ‘real flight,’ and hold Harry’s hands clasped against his toned stomach, and Harry would scoot up a bit too close, and dig his chin into Sirius’ shoulder, and would feel the harsh press of lips and a face scratchy with scruff on his cheek, slightly on his mouth, only slightly. 

Because today was the first game of the British Quidditch Cup, the Chudley Cannons vs the Appleby Arrows, and Bill Weasley insisted that Harry take his three tickets because his daughter, Victoire was ill, so him and Fleur were staying at home. 

Teddy sits atop Sirius’ shoulders, one of his hands, sweet-sticky, clutching one of Harry’s, completely oblivious about the inner distress of how wonderful the slide of Sirius’ jersey feels against his bare bicep. He’s chattering on about candy, or sugar, or some other food item that would make Andromeda hex Harry if her grandson came home hyped up all night. Harry’s eyes can’t help but dirft to Sirius’. 

Teddy’s other hand is tangled in Sirius’ now tangerine-orange hair (Harry was able to persuade him to dye his hair the night before, and _damn him_ for still looking like a model), and couldn’t be more absorbed in his surroundings. Though, that morning, it seemed inevitable that he and Sirius would arrive at Andromeda’s to see two tear-stained faces, one less noticeable thanks to concealment charms. 

(Everything hurt a bit more today, on Teddy’s birthday, and Harry is still trying to figure out whether it’s harder to remember that Remus and Tonks are gone, or that he had to explain _why_ they were to their son.)

Sirius smiles, only a bit sad and mostly comforting, and Harry can’t help but return it and feel less destroyed.

They swerve around other fans to find their way to their box, but on the way, they pass a souvenir stand, and Teddy is distracted by the face paint of the seller, his own morphing to match.

“Harry! Look at the Golden Snitches!” Teddy points at the jewelry stand, where pairs of Snitch earrings buzzed in stasis. 

Harry buys Sirius a pair of Snitch earrings with a grand presentation, which Sirius immediately puts on proudly. They gently flutter around his jawline, and Harry is jealous. 

They find their seats, with Teddy between them munching on a sweet pretzel (because Sirius is weak for anything to do with Teddy) and Sirius’ arm stretches across the top of Teddy’s seat, and he’s slightly brushing the short sleeve of Harry’s shirt, barely grazing the skin there.

The match begins, and Teddy is already up and jumping to the rails at the end of their box. His hair shifts from the bright orange of the Chudley Cannons to the vibrant green of the grass to the pale blue of the opposing team.

Sirius moves to Teddy’s vacated seat, and Harry’s eyes drift from the flash of gold hovering above the Chaser of the Appleby Arrows to the snitch dangling from Sirius’ ear. 

“Hi,” Harry says, and he adjusts his foot the two inches to rest beside Sirius’, feeling more daring than the action warranted. 

Sirius grins, roguishly and knowing, because he must have been knowing, and responds, “Hi.”

One of the wings of the snitch tickles Sirius’ neck, and he gently bats the bauble away. With a snort, Harry raises his hand to skim his pointer finger against the wing to persuade it to fly away, and he feels the pulse of Sirius’ artery speed up, ever so slightly. His eyes drift to Sirius’ lips, and then to his eyes, which were resting on _Harry’s_ mouth, also dart upwards, a beat later. 

“Hi,” Sirius says, and it’s not so much a hi as a ‘ _hello’_ , as a ‘ _are we on the same page’_ , as a ‘ _do you pine for me the way I pine for you, longer than I have had any right to?’_

At least, he hopes, because Harry’s neck is tilting towards the other man without his permission, and he’s moving in closer, _closer_ , and his lips brush against Sirius’. 

It’s not fireworks, but it’s comfortable. It feels right, like something they should’ve been doing for a long time. _Natural_. It’s the beam of a lighthouse in the dead of night, calling to any lost ships. It’s the fresh inhale of oxygen after stepping off a plane, back on land. It’s picking up the phone and hearing an old friend. It’s home. 

It’s Sirius. 

And, oh God, he’s not kissing back. 

He’s read this wrong. He needs to abort, _‘oh how strange, I think I have an owl waiting for me, I completely forgot’,_ and Hermione and Ron better not have started to convert their guest room into a baby room, and how do they work out visiting Teddy if they always went together?

But then, before he can pull away in embarrassment and fear, he feels a strong hand press against the back of his neck, and the kiss deepens, and _there_ are the fireworks. 

It’s electric, and it’s still Sirius. 

The noise of the pitch drowns out, and it seems like it’s been minutes, hours, but it must have only been seconds, because Teddy’s already bounding back to their seats, and he’s squealing, “Ew! Harry, Uncle Padfoot! Gross!” 

They pull away, and Sirius has a broad smile, slightly hesitant, and Harry whispers back, confident, “Hi.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am too proud of the first line of this chapter. i can't help but love it. 
> 
> anyway! i hope everyone who read this enjoyed it! i would appreciate any comments about your thoughts, or if anyone would like to read another fic of this pair by me, or anything else you would like to say! i just love comments! okay, thanks for reading! :)))

**Author's Note:**

> ugh i like this pair so much GWAHHH! sorry that this seems a bit run-on-y, i tried to make it like harry's thoughts racing and getting faster, but i think it may just seem rushed in a BAD way
> 
> also, i'm totally up to making a second part if anyone wants to see this continued! this is me not so subtly asking for comments ヽ(‘ ∇‘ )ノ


End file.
